Apothéke

This unmarked boîte is the sort of contrived hideout that might be cooked up by an overgrown kid with a chemistry set. The bar is littered with old vials, the cocktails are referred to as “prescriptions,” and the bartenders-cum-mad-scientists are in rare form—note the cinnamon-flambéed Himalayan salt that rims a margarita. But all of this hocus-pocus doesn’t translate to better drinks: An off-putting, gin-fueled Seven Herbs tasted exactly like alcoholic gazpacho. Apothéke’s $35 pyromaniacal absinthe—set aflame and passed between cups à la a blue blazer—yields a syrupy-sweet elixir. Some may revel in such silly tricks, but we’d rather take the cash and buy three less ludicrous drinks elsewhere.

This unmarked boîte is the sort of contrived hideout that might be cooked up by an overgrown kid with a chemistry set. The bar is littered with old vials, the cocktails are referred to as “prescriptions,” and the bartenders-cum-mad-scientists are in rare form—note the cinnamon-flambéed Himalayan salt that rims a margarita. But all of this hocus-pocus doesn’t translate to better drinks: An off-putting, gin-fueled Seven Herbs tasted exactly like alcoholic gazpacho. Apothéke’s $35 pyromaniacal absinthe—set aflame and passed between cups à la a blue blazer—yields a syrupy-sweet elixir. Some may revel in such silly tricks, but we’d rather take the cash and buy three less ludicrous drinks elsewhere.